


I Like You A Latte

by wandasmaximoffs



Series: Espresso Yourself [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Barista!Grantaire, M/M, Pumpkin Spice Lattes, coffee shop AU, i cant stop myself, im so sorry for this title
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-12
Updated: 2016-10-12
Packaged: 2018-08-22 03:20:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8270600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wandasmaximoffs/pseuds/wandasmaximoffs
Summary: “Well. Good morning to you, Apollo. What can I get you? Vanilla latte with a shot of righteousness?”“Enjolras,” He corrects, lips pressed into a thin line. “Uh, can I get a non-fat sugar-free pumpkin spice latte, no whip, with an extra shot, please?”Grantaire blinks. “This ain’t Starbucks, man.”





	

Grantaire hates his job.

He’s not going to lie to himself and say, _It’s only until my painting career takes off!_ Or _I’m a painter first, barista second,_ because as the weird blonde dude who likes to set up shop in the corner says every monday and friday evening, we all live in this capitalistic hellscape and none of us can escape.

(He says some other stuff after that, about standing together and taking down the dictators or whatever, but that’s usually when he stops listening. As long as they clean up their mess and don’t scare away the other customers, he really doesn’t care what they do.)

It really says a lot about the state of this neighbourhood (and, again, his hatred of his job) that these loud, political assholes taking over half the shop every few days is usually the best part of his week, and that is exactly why he’s so _loathe_ to admit it, but the facts are undeniable.  

 

He’ll take Cosette’s friends yelling about injustice and gay rights over soccer moms demanding to see the manager over their non-fat no-sugar soy latte any day.

 

Except, maybe, today.

 

“We can all help prevent climate change,” Says, _fuck_ , what’s his name? Whatever, the pretty blond guy who seems to be in charge of them all. “I know that, as a species, we’re cutting it _really_ close, but I really do believe that if we can educate the general public and spread awareness, then we can combat it effectively!”

It’s not hard to get caught up in his speeches, not when he makes all these gestures and he looks (and _sounds_ ) like some sort of angel sent down to rile up all the puny earthlings and maybe save the world. But Grantaire rarely finds himself _agreeing_ with the absolutely poetry that seems to fall out of that mouth with the utmost ease.

No, today, he makes his disdain known by shaking his head every now and then, and maybe smirking for good measure as he putters about behind the counter. He tries to keep his sarcasm to himself, mainly because he _likes_ these people and they tip well, but shit, he’s always been a blabber mouth.

 

“Yeah, no,” He says, just loud enough to make himself known, “It’s really too late for all that. We’re all fucked, royally.”

 

This proves to be the biggest mistake he’s made in maybe five hours, since Fearless Leader turns his gaze to him, and he’s faced with the most disturbingly blue eyes he’s ever seen in his _life._ (Or something stupidly mushy like that. Come on, Grantaire. Get your head in the game.)

Feuilly nudges him and gives him a disapproving look, somehow still managing to look menacing  beneath his mop of red hair, clusters of freckles and the apron that is at _least_ three sizes too big (It’s Bahorels-- Feuilly is just standing in while he gets over the flu.)

 

“And what makes you think that?” He says, and Grantaire blinks.

“The government.” Grantaire says, simply, and goes back to where he was wiping down the counter.

“The _government?_ You’ve resigned yourself to an _environmental apocalypse_ because of the _government?_ I can’t even _begin_ to see where your reasoning lies here--”

 

Grantaire groans. They tip well, sure. Not well enough for this, though.

  
“If anyone gave a shit about global warming, they would have done something by now. Not just laughed off any study or figures that came at them. Doesn’t matter how loud you guys yell or how many polar bears Greenpeace saves. We’re all fucked.”

Enjolras opens his mouth, and Grantaire is way too tired and way too hungover to argue this anymore, so he raises his hands and says, “I’ve _really_ gotta go back there and drag a few sacks of non fair-trade toxic waste outta a van, oh mighty Apollo, so if you’ll excuse me.”

He leaves just as Enjolras mutters, “Everything in here is fair trade. I _checked._ ”

 

* * *

 

Enjolras comes back the next morning.

 

Grantaire almost doesn’t recognise him, wrapped up in a thick, dark red coat, face half obscured with a grey knit scarf, hair an utter _mess_ from the October winds. It’s only when he gets to the front of the queue, and yanks the scarf down with a gloved hand to order that Grantaire realises who he is.

 

 _And fuck,_ he thinks, _He’s still hot._

 

“Good morning, Grantaire,” He says, and raises an eyebrow.

“Um. Did Cosette tell you my name?”  
  
“You’re wearing a name tag,” Enjolras points out, gesturing to the little square of plastic that’s long since been covered in tipex, the name _Grantaire_ scribbled on in green biro.

(It once held his first name, but. He doesn’t want the whole world knowing that.)

“Oh. Right.” Says Grantaire, and recovers. “ _Well._ Good morning to _you,_ Apollo. What can I get you? Vanilla latte with a shot of righteousness?”

“ _Enjolras,_ ” He corrects, lips pressed into a thin line. “Uh, can I get a non-fat sugar-free pumpkin spice latte, no whip, with an extra shot, please?”

Grantaire blinks. “This ain’t Starbucks, man.”

“So I’ve noticed. I try not to be a part of the _capitalist_ _machine_ , because-- No. I’m not getting into this with you. It’s _early._ I am _tired,_ and--”

 

“Jesus _Christ,_ okay!” Honestly, It’s probably on the menu. He can vaguely recall making something like this before, for some soccer mom ranting to him about her kids and their penchant for throwing spaghetti at walls or _whatever._ It’s probably some form of plagiarism, on the store’s behalf, but he can’t bring himself to care about that, either.

Grantaire knows, for _sure,_ that he definitely wouldn’t be so eager to make such a pretentious drink if the recipient were anyone else. He also knows that Enjolras could argue himself into the White House, and he’s _way_ too sober and _way_ too tired to face his wrath.

 

“Coming _right_ up,” Says Grantaire, forcing as cheery a grin as he can at this ungodly hour. It’s still dark outside, for fuck’s sake. He expects Enjolras to move off to the side, or to the table he likes in the corner, but he doesn’t.

He just leans on the counter, tapping his fingers, and Grantaire knows what’s coming before he even opens his mouth.

“You’re wrong, you know. About global warming.” Enjolras fiddles with his scarf for a second, and then looks up again. “I mean-- Of _course_ we’ll never get anywhere if we all just-- Resign ourselves to it.”

Grantaire doesn’t say anything. He’s busy scribbling something on the cup, so Enjolras takes that as a sign to keep talking.  


“And-- Anyway. I wanted to thank you for contributing, in any case. I appreciated the new perspective.”

“Well, I’m always up for giving my unwanted opinion to strangers,” Says Grantaire, but he’s smiling crookedly in a way that tells Enjolras he’s not serious. (He never is.)

 

He slides the cup across the counter to him, just as Enjolras protests a “Not _unwanted!_ Just…. Wrong. And-- I know, I can be very loud and abrasive, and I don't _strive_ to be likeable, but-- Your opinion is always welcome.”

“Whatever, man.” Grantaire laughs, and rings the coffee up.

 

(He doesn’t look at what Grantaire wrote on his cup until he gets outside and around the corner. It’s a little doodle of Enjolras, in a cape, standing on top of a slightly-misshapen globe with the words _“Hey, I like you a latte!”_

If anyone asks, it didn’t make him laugh, or blush even in the slightest.)

**Author's Note:**

> i just think im so HILARIOUS w that title.. true comedy gold. anyway kudos and comments and all that jazz is always appreciate, also ur forgiveness for writing such a SELF INDULGENT fic. but i mean lmao, its me, yall know its always gonna be this way. u can hmu on tumblr @ jehanprouvaiire !!


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